Only Weakness
by lcwir
Summary: The Hunger Games from Cato's point of view. Yep...the whole thing. Rated T to be safe.
1. Clove

Clove hurls knives at me, one after another, with deadly precision. My head is pounding and my heart is racing in my chest. One nicks my left ear; a drop of warm blood slides down my jaw. She's going all out today. But then again, Clove never holds back. She has no qualms about killing someone during a practice session. That's what I love about training with her. I knock her knife out of her hand, tackle her, and pin her to the ground. She doesn't even have time to struggle before I swipe my sword centimeters from her neck. A few centimeters further and it would have been a perfect kill.

"Dead," I announce as I stand up. She ignores my proffered hand and pushes herself off the mat.

"I'm done for today. Don't want to tire myself out. Because tomorrow is what really counts," she hisses. Her face is inches from mine. So close I can see the droplets of sweat beading on her collarbone.

I roll my eyes. "Don't be sore loser," I call out to her. She doesn't stop. "You forgot your knife!" She's already out the door, her long mahogany ponytail disappearing last. It really is a beautiful weapon. The blade is paper-thin and wickedly sharp. Clove, Clove, Clove...her name is etched in cursive all along the side of the hilt. And she calls me narcissistic. I wrap my hand around the hilt, testing the grip. The customized hilt disappears into the palm of my hand. It's much too small. Clove must have had the hilt adjusted to fit into her hand.

My latest Trainer comes up from behind me. I don't even bother to learn their names anymore. My father puts them on a rotating basis so that I can experience "a variety of fighting styles and be exposed to a wider range of weaponry." But really he just doesn't want me to get too attached to any one Trainer. Attachment is weakness.

"That was one hell of a fight, Cato. But Clove isn't much of a challenge for you, is she?" The Trainer steps into my line of sight. I shake my head.

"She's got some serious knife skills. But I've got 90 pounds on her. And no matter how much she denies it, size does matter in a fight to some extent," I reply.

"She's as good as dead if she goes up this year."

I look straight ahead, at the recently slammed door. I don't want her to be as good as dead.


	2. Property

Pre-Hunger Games. That's what everyone calls it. But it's a misnomer. Because someone will probably get their face broken in the pre-Hunger Games. There's always some broken bones and plenty of blood to go around. But no one ever dies. Death is the exclusive property of the Capitol.

The "gym" (but what kind of gym has an entire wall devoted to lethal wepaons of every kind?) has been rearranged completely. Chairs and tables have been set up where the weights usually are and all the mats have been moved to the center of the room. As always, the girls go first. And as always, it is mindnumbingly tedious. Everyone already knows that Clove is going to the female tribute despite her major disadvantage regarding size. I nearly fall asleep watching her completely own the other girls. None of them last more than a couple of minutes against her. I'm just about to doze off when Clove plops herself into my lap.

"Wow. That was so boring. I almost fell asleep," she grumbles. "There better be some real competition in the Games." She leans back against my chest.

"Don't worry. I promise to keep it interesting in the arena," I reply before pushing her off my lap.

"What the hell, Cato!"

I ignore her. I make my way to the center of the room. There's only one other male competitor for the honor of being tribute: Dansson.


	3. Control

We circle each other. My right hand is twitching; the absense of a sword in it is conspicuous to my body. I don't need a sword of course. I can snap Dansson's neck with my bare hands. He lunges forward, wrapping his arms around my midsection. My back hits the mats with a sound that reverberates in the cavernerous and nearly empty gym. I don't have time to react before Dansson is straddling me, pinning to the mats with his weight. He must be close to 300 pounds. This is how Clove must feel when she's fighting me.

"I'm going to enjoy messing up your pretty face," he growls in my ear before proceeding to pound on me with his gigantic fists. It's nothing new though. I've been undergoing intense pain training ever since my seventh birthday. My father has always been creative with his birthday gifts. I struggle underneath him and then go limp. He hestitates for a second, but that's more than enough. Hestitation is **weakness**. Using my legs and arms, I shove Dansson off of me, probably straining some muscles in the process. I scramble to my feet and almost collapse; my head is pounding.

"That's a cute little trick, Cato. You had me for a second there," he flexes his tremendous biceps and cracks his knuckles loudly. I have to fight the urge to laugh despite the pain in my jaw. He's a walking cliche. No wonder all the other districts think we're hulking savages. "But this time I'll make sure you're past the point of unconsciousness before I stop," he threatens.

I can't help myself. I back away. My right hand twitches again. It really is too bad that we're not allowed to use weapons during the pre-Games. Dansson and his barbaric mace is no match for me with a sword in my hands. I hear a peal of laughter; it's loud in the otherwise silent room. It's Clove. Of course. I throw an angry glance at her. Dansson throws a punch. It connects with my already throbbing jaw. She laughs again. Dansson punches me again. And again. Clove keeps laughing. My vision goes completely red and I feel something in me snap. I catch Dansson's fist and twists his wrist in one quick motion. He grunts and falls to his knees. I knee him in the face. His head jerks back and now he's the one on the ground. I kick him in the stomach. Over and over and over and over.

"Stop." He is gasping. "You win." I can't stop. The pounding in my head is so intense that I can barely hear what he's saying. I bring my foot up, ready to stomp his head in with my steel-reinforced boots. Dansson is looking up at me. Blood trickles from one side of his mouth and he's holding his hand close to his chest. He's beaten. Yet the rage refuses to recede. Just the opposite in fact. I have never felt so powerful. All my muscle belongs to my Capitol and my district and my father. I have no real choices because there is only one choice for me. Win. The alternative is impossible. I rest my heel on his temple and revel in the choice of it. The feeling fuels the rage until it's nearly out of my control. I grind my heel slightly and Dannson whimpers from underneath my boot. I am out of control; that is unacceptable. I kick him one more time and then step away. Just to prove that I can.

"Well," the female judge says breathlessly. "I think we know who our tributes this year are going to be. Congratulations Cato and Clove!" The judge next to her stands up as she sits back down.

"Careers. Remember. You must abide by our decisions." His face is neutral, even paternal. But his tone is threatening. There are murmus of dissent among the other Careers. They have trained their entire lives for this moment. For many of them this is their last chance at glory. This is my last chance, too. I am eighteen this year, the ideal age. Sayton, one of the 18 year old Careers, is glaring ferociously at Clove.

"It's not fair," she announces to her friends, not bothering to lower her voice. "She's only 16. She can be tribute next year. Besides. She's a dwarf. Doesn't have a chance."

I collapse into a chair as a wave of exhaustion sweeps through me. Clove sits down in the chair next to mine.

"I gotta say, Cato...that was a nailbiter," she says without looking at me. She's looking straight ahead...at Sayton. She smiles sadistically at Sayton and toys suggestively with her knife. It takes only a few seconds of this for Sayton and her crew to evacuate the room. The male Careers-in-training are struggling to drag Dansson out.

"You're going to need a wheelbarrow," I call out helpfully. They ignore me. Dansson is the favorite. One of the boys flip me off as they're rolling Dansson out the doorway. I just love being the underdog. It's just me and Clove now.

"_Every_ fight is a nailbiter after watching yours," I retort.

"You sure know how to take a compliment, Cato." She is laughing again. I groan. Does she never shut up?

"Clove. If you're this annoying in the arena, I'll take you out first," I say, only half joking. She continues laughing, undaunted.

"You can try."


	4. Killer

I usually find Reaping Day to be torturously boring. But this year is different. First of all, we have a new escort this year. The last escort we had talked so slow that no one could understand her. She steps up onto the stage and introduces herself.

"Hello District 2. My name is Fallon and I'm honored to be your escort," she says in her Capitol accent. I brace myself for a long and tedious speech but to my surprise, she gets right to the point. She reaches into the bowl and picks out a slip of paper.

"Sayton Centa," she reads off. Sayton doesn't even bother to walk up to the stage.

"I volunteer," Clove calls out from the 16 year old section. Her hand trails across my back underneath my bleached (and very uncomfortable) shirt as she passes by my section. I roll my eyes; Clove never could keep her hands to herself. The escort is still reaching around in the males' bowl when I volunteer. All the cameras focus in on me. I have to play this part perfectly. No fear, no doubt, no weakness. Some people go through life without ever finding their purpose. I'm lucky in this way. I have a purpose, one purpose. My purpose is to win. Not to survive. Not to make it through. To win. Yes, there is a difference. So I put on a smirk and I walk like I'm already a killer towards the stage.


	5. Pain

The Peacekeepers flank us as we walk towards the Justice Building. My father is at the head. The blinding white of his suit is marred only by the Capitol insignia on the chest pocket that marks him as Head Peacekeeper of District 2. He leads me into an empty room and leaves without saying a word. I hear the click as he locks the door. I swallow hard. Sentimentality is weakness. Sentimentality is weakness. I mentally repeat the mantra. The familiarity of the ritual helps me to push the lump developing in my throat the rest of the way down. When my mother walks in, I am still feeling a little out of whack. I haven't been this close to tears since my seventh birthday.

_"Did you have fun at the party son?" _

_I nod. "Yes, sir." I convulsively swallow the piece of chocolate cake in my mouth whole. He puts his hand on my shoulder and I force myself not to tremble. _

_"Are you ready to pay the price for all that fun?" My eyes widen at this. Definitely not. But of course there is always one answer possible when speaking to my father. _

_"Yes, sir." I push my plate away. My father stands up and announces to everyone that it is time to go. Maybe it's just me but it seems as if all the other parents stand at attention whenever my father speaks. I watch with growing dread as the parents collect my "friends" and leave, thanking my mom for her hospitality. _

_We are in the basement of the house, our own private, soundproof miniature Training Center. Father orders me to bring him a large club from our collection. _

_"Ready to learn how to channel pain?" It is not a question. Because there can only be one answer. _

_"Yes, sir." _


	6. Nutcase

My mother puts her hand on my cheek; it is cold and soft in a dry kind of way. Her eyes are glazed over and distant. She leaves two minutes before time is up. I wait in silence until the Peacekeeper standing watch at the door lets in an unexpected guest. It is a boy my age from school. I remember once Clove said to me that he would have made a good Career. I look closer at him now. She's right. The years of doing heavy construction have given him muscles that lifting weights cannot.

"What do you want?" I demand. Imminent life-death situations can really make you impatient. Not that I was particularly patient before.

He is staring down at his feet. "You probably don't know me," he begins in a low voice. You got that right. "But I just want to thank you for making this sacrifice for the rest of us."

I stare at him. "You're welcome." Wow. What a nutcase.


	7. Mentors

Three more Peacekeepers join the Peacekeeper at the door in escorting me to the train. Clove falls into step beside me, nearly running to keep up.

"How unfair!" she exclaims. "You get four of them. But I only warrant one measly Peacekeeper buddy? I'm the one they have to watch out for."

"Who cares about them? What about me? Do I need to watch out?" I watch her face carefully but it betrays no emotion.

She opens her mouth but before she can answer, Fallon is ushering us into the train.

Clove's mouth falls open the rest of the way. I have to resist doing the same. There are tinted windows lining the sides of the train. The interior is dimly lighted with blueish lamps that give the impression of being underwater. The floor is velvet and I can't even see the end of the train. I have the feeling that it would take days for me to walk from one end to the other. Fallon laughs; I swear, even when laughing she has a Capitol accent. Her laugh is high and piercing. Beside me, Clove is wincing at the abrasive sound. I surpress the impulse to punch Fallon in her green-lipsticked mouth just to get her to stop. Clove glances sideways at me and rolls her eyes.

Leaning in and standing on her tiptoes, she whispers into my ear, "Too bad she's not gonna be in the arena."

I couldn't agree more. Fallon taps me with a manicured nail. "Sit down, Cato. You too, Clove. Your mentors will be here any minute. Meanwhile, I'm very pleased to meet you. I'm Fallon as you already know. This is my very first assignment and I'm so very pleased." She continues to talk and, unfortunately, laugh even though Clove and I remain silent in the hopes that she will get tired of talking to herself. No such luck.

"Oh! Here they are! Your lovely mentors!" She chuckles nervously. Brutus stomps into the room followed by Enobaria who flashes her gold-tipped canines at our escort.

"I don't see why she's so famous," Clove remarks quietly to me. I lean back in the leather seat to get a better look at Clove.

"Really Clove?" I can hear the disbelief in my voice. "Ripping apart your opponent's neck with your teeth tends to get you noticed."

She crosses her arms and shrugs. "Whatever."

Enobaria sidles up next to me, sandwiching me against Clove. She appraises both of us for a few moments.

"I want the girl," she announces suddenly. She wants Clove. What's wrong with me?

Brutus snorts. "That's fine by me. I don't know what you're thinking Enobaria. This boy can tear her apart with his bare hands." I probably could actually.

I look over at Clove. She's taken out her favorite knife. She strokes the hilt with the back of her hand in a repetitive motion. I smile; she would never admit it but she's afraid of me. Clove only plays with her knives like that when she's nervous.

Enobaria sneers at Brutus from across the table which is a little scary considering her cosmetically altered teeth. "It's on," she snarls. She grabs Clove and literally hauls her out of the room. Fallon begins to laugh again but a single look from Brutus silences her mid-laugh. I almost feel sorry for her. Almost.

Another look from Brutus sends Fallon scurrying out of the room. "What's your strategy, boy," he asks, his eyes roaming over me, sizing me up.

"Kill everyone who gets in my way." Duh. There's no need to complicate things when it comes to the Hunger Games.

"And that's the exactly the kind of thinking that will get you killed."


	8. Muffins

"Okay team! I was thinking we should have a team name. Any suggestions?" Fallon sings over the breakfast table.

I need earplugs desperately; there must be some kind of a law against being this loud so early in the morning. Enobaria and Brutus are glaring at each other from across the table. Enobaria tears a piece out of her muffin while staring pointedly at Brutus's neck. Fallon is still chattering away nonstop about nothing of significance when Clove finally comes to breakfast. She grabs an entire plateful of food, takes one look at the situation and promptly evacuates the room with enough muffins, cantaloupes, and toast to feed the entire population of Panem. I can't believe it; she's abandoning me to them? I eat another muffin. Muffins are literally the only good thing about this whole thing so far actually. Father is not here to regulate my diet which mostly consists of tasteless whole grains and plently of "muscle-building" red meat. Apparently, having a sweet tooth is a weakness in the arena.

"Cato," Fallon pokes at me with her spoon.

I have an overwhelming urge to growl at her, but she's so jumpy from being in the same room with our two not entirely sane mentors (not to mention Clove and her collection of torture devices) that I decide to be have a little mercy on this impossibly annoying woman. Instead of scaring her into pieces and therefore ensuring that she never looks my way much less talk to me again, I look at her expectantly.

She lets out an audible sigh of relief. "Cato, darling. Would you be a darling and get Clove for me? I want to show you darlings something." She draws out the word "darling". I assess the Brutus-Enobaria situation. Yep, tensions are definitely escalating. Which means that the smartest thing to do is to follow in Clove's heroic footsteps.

I flash a smile at her. "Of course, _darling_. I would be _ever_ so pleased," I say, coating my words with a generous layer of sarcasm. She smiles brightly back at me. I decide that Enobaria has nothing on Fallon when it comes to frightening smiles. I abandon my half-eaten muffin to run after Clove.


	9. Staring Daggers

Clove is sprawled on her bed, the covers on the floor, tossing grapes into the air and catching them between her lips before eating them. As I come through the door, she pelts me with grapes. Her aim, whether she is throwing grapes or daggers, is dead on.

"Get out of here, Cato." She smiles lazily up at me. "Before I run outta grapes and start throwing knives instead."

"Fallon said to fetch you," I say, ignoring her threat.

She rolls over onto her stomach and plays with the tip of her ponytail. "Then I'm definitely not coming."

I see the way it was going to be. I snatch her from her pigsty of a bed, toss her over my shoulder, and proceed back down the hall.

"Cato!" She shrieks. She pounds on my back with her fists. Clove may be the most deadly girl in all of Panem but she squeals like any other girl. I let my hand drift down to her ass...I freeze. Clove has the edge of her blade pressed against my lower back. I groan.

"Where do you hide all these knives?"

She's wearing tight fitting black pants that are made out of some kind of stretchy, glossy material, a white blouse that is rolled up at the sleeves and no shoes. Where would she possibly hide a weapon, even one as small as a knife?

"That's my business. Don't think I'm gonna give away all my secrets before we even get to the arena. Now let me down before I peel off your skin and use it to make beef jerky." She teases.

The skin on my back tingles as she traces designs with her knife, sliding the cool metal millimeters above my belt and working the tip into my waistband. I squirm.

"You better let me down before I go any lower." She presses down harder now but still not hard enough to draw blood.

What the hell. I squeeze her ass hard one time before flipping her onto her back and running for my life through the halls. I dive into the dining room and nearly knock over Brutus.

"Where's Clove?" asks Fallon. I think I might be getting used to her voice. I'm not sure if that's a good thing exactly.

I move to the other side of the room, putting as much distance between me and the door as possible.

"Don't worry. She's coming. I made sure of it."


	10. Physical

**Author's Note: Hi :D Anyone out there? Feedback would be nice. There will be no changes to the original plot or the dialogue by the way but I will take creative liberty and make random stuff up. TEAM CATO! **

Clove kicks the door open, whacking Brutus in the back. He nearly falls on his face but catches himself by grabbing onto Enobaria's shoulder; she shakes off his hand and shoots him a murderous look.

She throws a knife causally in my direction. It sticks to a painting behind me, the hilt still quivering from the force of the throw and impact. I don't think it's a coincidence that she hit the eye of the girl in the portrait dead on.

"Get over here, Cato. Unless you think you can't take me." She bares her teeth in an unmistakable challenge.

When I refuse to rise to the bait, she continues, "You know what? I think I should lead the career pack this year. Guys always get to lead the pack...change it up a little yeah? Not to imply that you're incompetent or weak, Cato." Her voice drops to a silky whisper towards the end.

The room suddenly feels way too hot. I shove the table aside and plates shatter on the cool stone floor as the table impacts with the wall. Enobaria and Brutus have paused their endless stare-offs to watch the show. I pick up a spoon and bend it completely in half in one hand. There is a flash of amusement in Enobaria's eyes. The metal bites into the flesh of my palm. Tossing it aside, I saunter over to Clove and push her up against the wall so that I can look her straight in the eyes without having to look down.

"Who's leading the pack? I didn't hear you the first time, Clove." I slam her against the wall again.

She laughs. "It's going to take more than being man-handled to scare me, Cato." She lays the flat of her knife on my cheek. "But I was just playing. Everyone knows you're the leader."

And just like that the tension evaporates. It's always been this way with me and Clove, this cat and mouse game. I muss up her hair before dropping her unceromoniously to the floor.

"Where did Fallon go?" I ask, looking around the wrecked room for her. "Didn't she want to show us something?"

"I'm here," she calls out in a shrill voice from under the table. She crawls out and smooths down her puffy skirt. "Tributes are not allowed to engage in physical confict under any circumstances." Her hand is shaking as she pulls out a tape labeled Reaping from her fluorescent purse. Naturally, we all ignore her. Enobaria and Brutus might be slightly off-kilter but so are Clove and I. "Physical conflict " is what we breathe.


	11. Promises

I pay particular attention to the tributes from District 1. Traditionally, Distric 1 tributes have been our biggest competitors in the Games. A 14 year old girl is reaped. She stands, trembling on the stage (typical prey behavior) before a Career girl volunteers for her. Her voice is clear and melodic; the cameras zoom in on her face and I'm surprised.

"She doesn't look like a Career," I say to Clove.

Clove rolls her eyes at this. "Yeah, she does. Look at her biceps...not an ounce of flab on her. And the way she holds herself, Cato. She looks _exactly _like a Career. A pretty face doesn't change that." She makes a disparaging noise at the back of her throat. "Boys." Enobaria and her exchange a knowing glance.

I motion for Fallon to rewind the tape and this time, I ignore the glittering walkway up to the stage and focus only on Glimmer. Her stride is purposeful and sinuous, almost seductive. I mentally peg her as someone to watch out for. Marvel, her counterpart, is expected. He's the typical District 1 male tribute: hulking muscles, a permanent sneer, a brutal physique. In short, he's a Dansson. And I know I can beat Dansson in a fight.

"Better not let Marvel get a hold on you. He'd crush you," remarks Brutus unhelpfully. It's nothing that I didn't already know.

I want to fast forward through the rest of the reapings. Even District 4's reaping is a bore. Usually, they manage to muster up decent tributes but this year is a disappointment. Oh well, less competition.

"What do you think?" Clove nudges my arm.

"Both of the District 1 are in. But I don't know about Four. Maybe the girl," I concede.

Clove shakes her head. "Yeah. District 1 for sure. But I don't trust the Four girl. She has a treacherous look about her."

I shrug. It's a blur of unmemorable faces until District 11.

"Ooh." Clove is nearly bouncing up and down on the couch with excitement. "Dibs on the little girl."

"You're sick, Clove," I tell her. The District 11 girl is tiny; she doesn't stand a chance. Clove pouts up at me.

"Promise me that you'll let me have her." Behind us, Fallon makes a gagging sound.

"I promise," I say. But we both know that in the arena, promises will be worth nothing.


	12. No Mercy

The camera sweeps across the straggly population of the impoverished District 12. Their drunken and unfortunately, only, mentor falls off the stage nearly taking down the escort's wig down with him. Clove is giggling uncontrollably. However, the hilarity stops when a young girl of 12 is reaped. The crowd becomes even more silent. I glance over at Clove.

"Do you want this one, too?" I ask

She is smoothing back her hair into a ponytail. "What?" She looks over at the screen. "Oh, her? You spoil me, Cato. I want the District 10 boy, too by the way."

I raise an eyebrow. "The one with the bad leg? Don't you want someone who will put up a fight at least?"

The cameras zoom in on a dark-haired girl running up to the stage. "I volunteer," she says. She stands arrow straight, her hands at her sides with her chin lifted.

Clove scoffs. "Drama queen much?"

But the drama only continues. The little girl, apparently the volunteer's little sister, is dragged off crying by a boy who looks to be my age. He mouth is set in a straight line and it's impossible to miss the intense way he looks at the girl who just volunteered.

"Now that's a competitor," says Clove a little regretfully. "That boy would be sooo much fun to break." She glances sideways at me; there is a sly gleam in her eye. "But I guess I'll just have to settle for you."

I look her straight in the eyes. "No games, Clove. Are we on the same side or not?"

She looks steadily back at me. "For now. But I don't want any mercy in the arena. No mercy. Not even for you, Cato." She turns to leave, but I grab her arm. She does not turn around.

"Alright Clove. No mercy. But no hard feelings either." I let go of her wrist and watch her leave the room. In the background, the Capitol's annoyingly upbeat theme music is blaring.


	13. The Capitol

I'm woken up by the touch of icy steel. Clove is sitting on my chest.

"We're almost there so rise and shine." She presses the flat of the knife against my stomach again and I yelp. In her other hand is a cup of ice water.

"Do you like my wake-up call, Cato?" she teases. Her eyes drift down the length of my chest, finally resting on the edge of the blanket. "Hmmm..." Without warning, Clove whips the blanket off me.

"Damn it Clove. It's cold. And I'm up already," I say while pulling on a shirt. She shrugs innocently.

"I just wanted to see if you were the type to wear teddy bear pajamas to bed. Or if you were the type to sleep nak..." Suddenly the weight and warmth of her body vanishes.

She rushes to the window, her knife forgotten on the covers. "Cato! We're here! We're at the Capitol," she says excitedly. I walk over to the window like a normal person and stand behind her. I have to squint; the colorful, shiny tops of the buildings reflect the morning sunlight, giving the impression of a city of strangely shaped disco balls. It's giving me a pounding headache.

In front of me, Clove is waving serenely at the throngs of cheering (and bizarre) people who have come out to see us.

"Wipe that scowl off your face, Cato. If we want sponsors, you better turn on that charm," she commands.

Yeah right. I'd get sponsors no matter what.


	14. Smoke

I'm surprised by the age of my stylist. She can't be more than 25.

"You're a stylist for District 2. That's a hard-to-get position," I prompt her.

"You can just ask. No need to beat around the bush. I know I'm young. My father is one of the Gamemakers. He has a certain amount of influence in the Capitol. If it weren't for him, I would probably have gotten stuck with the District 12 tributes." She takes a leisurely drag of her cigarette and breathes out the purple smoke into my face; it smells like lavender. "Now that's enough small talk. Let me get a proper look at you." She motions with her cigarette for me to take off the robe.

She circles me once, her eyes appraising me through the haze of purple smoke. She makes a husky sound of approval. I can feel the blood rushing up to my face.

"I can work with this. Follow me." Great. Another bossy woman in my life.

She glides out the door into the adjoining room without making sure that I'm following. I hurry after her.

"Uh. Can I get some clothes now?" I ask awkwardly.

A look of amusement crosses her face. "Now why would you want to do that, my lovely tribute?" She holds out a cigarette. "Want one? It's flavored." I politely decline.

She turns around and with a press of a button on the wall panel, a humongous screen appears from the ceiling. She sits down at her computer and pulls up an image of a gladiator style tunic.

"That's your outfit for the opening ceremonies. With a few adjustments." She studies my face. "Do you like it, Cato?"

"Does it matter if I like it?"

She laughs. "You're right. It doesn't matter."

A few hours later, I am dressed in the tunic. The prep team is gushing over me as they encompass me, bent on suffocating me with face powder. Right now my least favorite thing in this world is eyeliner. Vivana hurries over with a pair of metallic-colored sandals.

"Put these on. Ohmygod! We're almost up!" she skips away, no doubt to acquire even more eyeliner.

I stare at the sandals. There are laces and straps and buckles. What the hell am I supposed to do with this? Okay, time to panic.

"Vivana!"

She skips back to me. "What is it, handsome!" she coos. Then she sees the sandals in my hands. And like me, she panics.

"Why haven't you put those on?" She pushes me back into the chair and works furiously, lacing up the sandals, tightening the straps, and snapping down the elaborate buckles. Someone calls into the room. "District 2. We need you out there now!"

I only have one sandal on. My prep team is having a full-blow meltdown when she walks in, filling the room with the scent of lavender. I inhale deeply.

"Calm down, pets," she breathes. Her voice has a calming effect on the prep team and their frantic chattering dies off. I shoot her a grateful look; I was ready to explode.

She leads me down to the District 2 chariot in the Remake Center. Clove is already in place; she looks different with her hair down. I climb into our silver chariot and lean down.

"I don't know your name."

She drops her cigarette and extinguishes the flame with her stiletto heel. "Jazz. Here, give me your other shoe. It's too late to get it on now." She kisses me on the lips and like everything about her, the kiss is impersonal. She tastes like lavender. "For luck."

Avoxes lead the horses, lining us up directly behind District 1. We have to wait a moment before following the District 1 chariot outside.

"I wish someone would wish me luck." Clove winks suggestively up at me. Her face looks softer with her hair gathered in big braids around her head in a mahogany halo.

"_My_stylist is gay, I think."

"I think the guy on my prep team is gay. He kept squeezing me in...um...uncomfortable places," I say just as we start to move.

The crowd's ecstatic cheers intensify as we come into view. As we reach the end of the path, the crowd unexpectedly gets even louder. I'm confused until Clove directs my gaze towards the big screen at the front. The District 12 tributes are on fire...literally.


End file.
